The Gloved Gunman
by ivywhsemessenger
Summary: A new serial killer stomps around London post-Reichenbach. John copes with the fall as Sherlock watches from the shadows.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Clearly I do not own any of the characters. This fanfiction is based off of BBC's Sherlock. Special thanks to my beta- High-Functioning Sociopath SH**

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked at the crime scene once more. Based on a missing person's report the woman was Sister Harriet Darvillle. She was kneeling in a prayer fashion with a rosary in her hands. Overall she looked peaceful except for the gunshot to the back of the head. The unregistered gun had been left there with no fingerprints and same went for the knife used to carve her initials into her cheek. "Did we get pictures of everything yet? Oi! Anderson. Did we get all of this photographed yet?" Anderson replied with a stiff nod and Lestrade gave orders to move the body. As soon as the sister had been pulled off the floor they were able to see a piece of paper and a pen which had been covered by her dress.

_Tell my sisters I said to keep preaching the word of our Lord and Saviour._

_Do not become distracted by my death for I am in a better place. Others_

_still need your assistance in finding their path. I will see you soon._

_Sister Harriet_

Take care of it" Lestrade called out to no one in particular. He made his way out to the car and began to drive back to Scotland Yard. He popped in to his favourite coffee shop and purchased tea and a scone. As he waited for his order he pulled out a nicotine patch as well as his mobile. He dialled the number he knew by heart; it rang until a woman's voice mockingly repeated the numbers back to him before allowing him to leave the message. Grabbing his food he hissed "Listen here you little twat, John's not the only one who knows you're not dead. I'm not sure how much longer he'll last before he goes mad. And if that's not enough of an incentive" Lestrade took a pause to calm himself down "I need your help to catch a serial killer." With that he stormed out of the shop and sped off to inform his colleagues of what happened in the Catholic Church.

It was remarkably similar to two other murders that same year. One was Sally Shipton, a school teacher in Uxbridge. She had been shot through the heart with a different unregistered gun that was also left at the scene of the crime. She also had been allowed to leave a note with her last words and her initials were carved into her cheeks. Her body had been found inside of the school on a day when there would be no children in the building. There were no clues as to whether or not the killer was aware of this.

The other was Amie Ponton, a nurse at Saint Bart's Hospital. She had been found in the body locker just yesterday but she was killed nearly six months ago by gunshots through her eyes. The note and gun were found in the locker as well. Her initials had also been carved into her cheeks post-mortem.

"Three women. That officially makes this man a serial killer. He goes after young women in female dominated professions. The weapons are always left at the crime scene without fingerprints. He allows them to write a letter to their loved ones. He murders them, as quickly as he can, in the places they work, cleans up the mess, and finally carves their initials into their cheek after he's finished the job. He does this all without ever being caught on camera."

"Sir, how are you sure that our killer's a man?"

"Donovan. Now's not the time for that. Statistically speaking we're looking for a man. Does anyone have any theories as to how we can stop him?"

"Bloody hell. We don't have any information to go off of. And you expect us to be able to capture him?" Anderson questioned, aggravated

"We can't just fucking wait for him to slip up now can we? We also can't tell the press because we'll look like a bunch of bloody idiots. So I'll ask you again- can anyone think of anything to do?"

**AN: I've started on the next chapter (it will be about Sherlock and John) but I don't know when I'll update. Tell me what you think. **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Don't get used to updates this quickly. **

**Six months earlier**

Sherlock gazed out of his window and observed John, who was busy making funeral plans. He had fallen apart after the apparent suicide and delayed the burial for nearly a month. Molly had also needed that time for some facial reconstruction so it worked out nicely. Even though Sherlock could not hear him he was sure that John was struggling to make every detail perfect. Currently, he was on the phone with Gainsborough Flowers ordering a bouquet of red and white tulips, acacia, arbutus, wormwood, and phlox. It was an interesting combination to say the least. Planning the funeral was keeping his mind busy and away from replaying the fall.

The door bell rang and John popped up to retrieve the package. It contained a new coat and scarf identical to Sherlock's. John had decided to keep the other set for himself. The coat was atrociously too large for him, but he did not mind. John set the package down on the coffee table and finished his phone call. He plopped down on the couch and began to breathe heavily as he choked back yet another wave of tears. He still could not understand why Mycroft asked him to do it. Maybe it was supposed to help him cope, or maybe Mycroft was not allowed to be too involved because that would look like the government was taking sides. Either way, John needed to take the package to the funeral home. He also grabbed Sherlock's purple shirt and violin.

Once John left with the package Sherlock went to lay on his couch. Mycroft had purchased 223C Baker St. the day Sherlock began sharing the flat with John. Mycroft and Mr. Hudson had been sworn to secrecy. He pulled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal four nicotine patches. Staying away from John was taking a lot out of Sherlock. He could not stand to see his only friend like this. He was broken. Some nights he would storm around their flat and just scream at Sherlock. John would call him useless, psychotic, brilliant, and then break down. Sherlock had secretly delivered ear-plugs to all of the neighbours for nights like these.

One night had been worse than any other. It was about a week after the fall. John had come home from his first therapy appointment with his cane. He silently took out his prescribed anti-depression pills and took half the bottle before Sherlock could notify Mrs. Hudson. Then he just laid on the couch and waited in silence with a blank expression. He did not break down like the other times, he just sat. Sherlock had panicked and reached for his mobile, immediately dialling John's number only to have Mycroft intercept it. Sherlock ignored the pre-recorded lecture his brother began to give him. Sherlock stumbled to dial Mrs. Hudson having to re-try several times. Once he finally got it right he pressed the call button.

"Hello?" she said mindlessly.

"MRS. HUDSON," he howled, "it's John! Upstairs- he's-go! SUICIDE!" She dropped the phone and scurried up the stairs and burst open the door- as much as a woman like Mrs. Hudson could burst open a door. She was stunned to find John sitting there in plain sight like it was an average day. He had begun sweating heavily and was shaking.

"Hello Missss Hudsson." His speech was so slurred she couldn't understand a word of it. Sherlock had already called the hospital and an ambulance was on its way to pick John up. Sherlock paced around 223C screaming John's name.

"You idiot! Why would you do this? I'm not worth this. John. Just-why?" It broke his heart so see his John like this. He was also the reason for it and there was nothing he could do to alleviate the problem. After two hours Mrs. Hudson still had not returned from having left with the ambulance. Unable to wait any longer Sherlock hailed a taxi to Saint Bart's.

"You don't understand- he's my friend. My only friend. I have to see him- even if it's from a distance." Sherlock pleaded.

"I'm sorry- no visitors at this time. Come back once his stomach has been pumped." Her eyes seemed to suggest she sympathized with Sherlock but she had crossed her arms sternly- clearly a defensive position.

"When will that be?"

"We're not quite sure- have you considered contacting his relatives?"

"You placed an extra emphasis on that last word. Is that because you think they are more important to him than me? Or is because you want me to leave so you can have a nice shag with her?" Sherlock nodded his head toward the supply closet behind her, "Can you at least tell me if he'll live." Once the shock left her face she informed him, with no guarantee, that John may live. With that she stood up to go the supply closet, "Have a nice one," he called out after her.

"Sher—"

"Shhh. Mrs. Hudson, we must be careful." He hissed back.

"Precisely- he might see you."

"That's why I was getting ready to leave."

"The doctors say we're lucky I phoned when I did. But the funny thing is I never did. I thought he was going to die at any second. Right there. In my arms. Thank you. I couldn't have dealt with two deaths."

"He would have been the only one." Mrs. Hudson shot him a glance as though to say how can someone so smart be so dumb. Sherlock's eyes widened with understanding. "I wouldn't have."

"But John would have. What does that say about you?"

Now, only three weeks later, John looked perfectly healthy, quite unlike someone who almost over-dosed.

Granted, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and Lestrade had raided the apartment discarding of all of the knives, pills, and rope- the two men were never there at the same time- they had taken extra precautions with the harpoon and noose.

His phone buzzed with a text from Mycroft. _I like your new hair but who imagined a ginger Holmes?_

Sherlock quickly replied. _Do you know when my funeral is?_

Buzz. _Tomorrow_.

_Thanks_.

_Can we talk about your attempts to contact John?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance with his older brother and sent back _No. I was not thinking clearly. He was attempting suicide. It won't happen again._

The final buzz. _Precisely, you were not capable of thinking clearly. Maybe you should consider moving._

Sherlock put on his suit with a silver-cream shirt. He had replaced his wardrobe with that of a university student. Wrinkled, faded, cheap t-shirts, skinny jeans, and converse. It drove him mad. But this was only a small portion of the price he was willing to pay in order to still be close to John. Sherlock arrived nearly two hours before his own funeral was supposed to begin. He felt nervous leaving John for so long but Mrs. Hudson was helping him get ready. He took a taxi to the burial grounds but had to walk in once they hit the front gate. The walk uphill was nice. Normally Sherlock was not one for fresh air but sometimes it helped him clear his head.

Since Sherlock faked his own death he had felt more emotion toward John. Or, at least, he was more able to recognize how strongly he felt for John. When he was in their old flat there was nothing Sherlock wanted more than to hold him and strip away the fear. He had tried to tell John though._ It's a trick. It's just a magic trick._ He had said. But John did not understand, or maybe he did. Some of those nights when John broke down he would howl for Sherlock to come out of hiding so they could solve crimes and almost get blown up. It really did not matter as long as they were together.

Sherlock was now sitting against a tree a good distance from his tombstone. Soon enough people began to arrive.

John walked up to the funeral party and saw the friendly face of Lestrade. "Hey, thanks for everything you've done the past few weeks."

"It's no problem; consider it repayment for all those times you saved my job." He cracked a smile but saw the pain that developed in John's eyes. "I'm sorry, I should have known better."

"It's fine, Greg. John's a big boy, he'll survive." Mycroft avowed.

"You two know each other?"

"Do you think a brother like Mycroft would have let Sherlock work alongside me for years without making sure to check up on me regularly?" Lestrade continued to talk but John became distracted by a plain looking woman a bit off in the distance. She had dark brown hair that was in natural but very tight curls. Her face was also kept clean and she was in a modest black dress and flats. However, there was no fooling John. This woman was Irene Adler. Sherlock had re-positioned himself to stay out of Irene's sight.

The rest of the burial process continued as normal. Mrs. Hudson was the only one he could be certain shed tears but he could have sworn Irene wiped something away from her eye. Mycroft had a smug grin the entire time and Sherlock's mother, who was beside Mycroft, kept herself very well composed. John stood apart from the rest, not as obvious about it as Irene but he clearly did not want to talk. He stood firmly and straight, a soldier's stance. There was the same blank expression as that night. Once it was over Mrs. Hudson told John to meet her at the car.

Seeing John say his last goodbyes made Sherlock want to run out and scream "I'm here! It's me!" Even though that was what would make John the happiest, it was also what would get him killed. With that John made a sharp turn, the turn of a lower ranked soldier leaving a higher ranked one and left Sherlock alone at his grave once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eight months after the funeral. **

**Two months after the serial killer. **

"Can we check all of the other security cameras in the area?" Lestrade asked Donovan. They were out for coffee before the next update on the serial killer.

"Sir, I really don't think we should push our luck. It's a miracle we found what we did." She made her words seem harsh and directed at Lestrade rather than the case. "I mean if you hadn't re-watched the tape we wouldn't have noticed his-"

"Donovan, not here." He snapped.

"Right, sir."

Lestrade's mobile began to ring. The caller ID told him the number was unknown but Lestrade knew better than that. He took one last sip of his coffee before flipping open his mobile. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Hello there, Greg. How have you been?" Mycroft mused. His voice was as soft as it had been when they first met so many years back.

"I'm sorry, but now's not really a good time." It took every muscle in Lestrade's body to reject the offer which had not, yet, been proposed.

"This isn't what you think it is, Greg. I hear you've got yourself a gloved gunman. I want to help. How about over a nice scotch?"

Lestrade knew denying Mycroft could cost another woman her life. "So, is it your place or mine?"

"Well, I was hoping you could come over here."

"What part of this isn't what I think it is?"  
Mycroft chuckled warmly yet a bit condescending. "Who said you can't have your cake and eat it too?"

"I'll be there about nine tonight." Lestrade snapped the phone shut before the elder Holmes brother could do anything else to him.

"Greg, remember what happened because of him?"

"I'll see you back at The Yard." In Lestrade's mind, Donovan had no place to tell him how to live his life regardless of how long they had known each other. Their relationship was- almost- strictly professional. Naturally after years on the force together they knew some aspects of the other's personal life but he knew where to draw the line. Donovan had no notion of the line between work and personal life, as made apparent by her relations with Anderson.

It didn't take long for him to arrive; however there was one consequence of his actions in that he had to wait nearly twenty minutes for Donovan who had the coffee for everyone else. "Now for those of you who have only heard this from the gossip we have a new clue on our gunman. We caught a glimpse of him on a surveillance tape." Lestrade played the clip. It showed part of a leg and shoe disappearing. "Now I understand it's not much but we've been able to deduce that he wears a size 10 so he's about five-eight or five-nine. And he owns a pair of black sneakers."

"So we've only narrowed it down to men with a common shoe size?" Anderson commented from the back of the room, his face stuffed with doughnut.

"Anderson, I've had enough of your shit. If you're not going to be helpful than you can get out if my investigation." His finger was pointed firmly. He took in a deep breath before addressing the room as a whole. "That goes for the rest of you too, you hear? This man is dangerous and has taken the lives of at least three women and this is the only thing we have to go off of. You will not mock their deaths. You will act professional or with God as my witness I will personally ensure that every last one of you gets sacked." With that he left the room.

There was nothing else for him to say so Lestrade made his way to his favorite Chinese food place called "Gormet Buffet" down on Strutton Ground. He filled his plate and mindlessly ate on complete science. He was still distraught after the divorce. He vaguely noticed he was still uncomfortable eating alone.

Soon, however, his phone bleeped with a text from Mycroft. _It's so sad to see you eating alone, come on over. I have plenty here for you. _

Lestrade hated to admit it to himself but eating with Sherlock's brother would feel much better than wallowing in his own pity. _I'll catch a cab and be there in 10._ He began to pay when it beeped again this time it said _There is no need for that. I'm just outside._ Lestrade left the buffet and glazed his eyes over the street looking for the car when instead he saw Mycroft standing dramatically with his umbrella.

"No car?"

"Not today, I don't live that far off and I want to show that I'm not up to my usual tricks."

"So this is legitimately business, huh?" he crooked an eyebrow at Lestrade, "this must be the first time since I first started working with Sherlock."

"Very funny, Detective-Inspector."

They continued walking a comfortable distance in silence to the flat. It was a comfortable silence and Lestrade noticed himself falling back into the same false sense of security he always had around the Holmes brothers. He had put all of his eggs in one basket with Sherlock and it almost cost him his job.

It did cost him a friend, an honest man though.

Before he knew it, he was sitting in Mycroft's living room, a scotch in his hand.

The room was filled with gold, maroons, and creams. It was a very classical style—almost as though he had modeled it after his office. A portrait of his mother hanged in an elaborate gold frame above the fireplace. A frail woman, she possessed fractures of both her sons; Sherlock's cheekbones and Mycroft's worn eyes.

"There's something you need to know about the killer."

"And that is..?"

"He has a motive unrelated to the crimes."

"That's not possible."

"He's not killing specific people with a motive. His motive is a motive is one for killing in general."

"You say this like you've spoken to him."

"I have- sort of."

"So you know who it is?"

"Naturally."

"Who then?"

"I might as well tell you seeing as you'll never get the proof you need to lock him up. It's—"


	4. Chapter 4

Joyous laughter filled the flat. John looked elated to be there with all of his friends. Lestrade could hardly believe the change in his aura in such a short time.

Susan had met John about three months after the fall and two months after his attempted suicide. Within weeks he seemed almost made for her. Whenever she spoke, he hung on her every word as though it was the most meaningful thing he had ever heard, regardless of the actual content. And he was so eager to hear what she said that he would awaken at all hours of the night to check his phone. It was like an addiction but this one had no downside. He never really cared about looks but instead on intelligence and wit but she had it all. She was beautiful and had a brain to challenge him at every turn. She had quite the sense of humour as well. By their fourth date his heart was surely stolen.

Now, a mere ten months later they were hosting an engagement party in the flat he had once shared with Sherlock. Everything was left the same after the fall. A yellow smile and bullet holes added character to the living room. The books remained on the shelves. There was the scratch in the table, although he never did discover where it came from. The only thing that was different was that the fridge was now filled with food instead of heads and the microwave had been thoroughly cleaned after an explosion Susan had caused. Even Sherlock's room was exactly the same- well, almost.

Once Susan had moved in she began to take it upon herself to do the cooking and cleaning. John was fine with this because the flat was in better shape than it had ever been in before. One day, however, she overstepped her boundaries. She decided to clean out Sherlock's bedroom. When John returned home after an especially long night at the hospital boxes were stacked by the door with the words "donate" or "Mycroft?" inscribed on them with a black Sharpie.

He opened the top box and stared upon chemistry books, dictionaries, and a book on the universe Lestrade had bought Sherlock as a gag gift that Christmas Sherlock had offended Molly. That couldn't be. That book was on Sherlock's nightstand.

He opened up the second box. In it, there were a few folded shirts. There was an oddly shaped object covered in newspaper. Slowly and cautiously, he picked it up. Once he had a firm grip, he unwrapped it with one smooth movement. Now there was newspaper on the floor and a skull in his hands. He placed it above the fireside once more and darted into Sherlock's room.

"Hello, dear." Susan piped.

"This is Sherlock's stuff! What are you doing?"

"Honey," she said calmly.

"It's not okay!" he screeched.

"He's been dead for half a year. Isn't it about time to clean this out and give it to Mycroft?"

"When he wants it he'll come and get it."

The argument grew in intensity until finally, Susan went to stay the night at a friend's and John spent the rest of the night replacing Sherlock's things. He fell asleep in Sherlock's bed about half way through at around three in the morning. Every so often he would toss around and struggle to remove another article of clothing until he was in his red pants and one sock.

Sherlock had watched the entire fight unfold, John perfectly replace his things, and fall asleep in his proper bed. He put on a sweatshirt and made his way from 223C to 221B Baker Street. He moved silently through the night and passed unnoticed as he lit a fag in order to not look suspicious to any late night travellers. He opened the door with the key he had refused to give to his brother and made his way upstairs, cautious not to awaken Mrs. Hudson. He opened the flat and felt home for the first time in a year. Everything around him was the way it should be. This was where he belonged. Carefully, he took off his shoes and walked to his room. Unsure of what to do next, he began to unpack. John began to moan in his sleep about the fall.

John dreamed a dream of days gone by with his best friend and running through the city chasing criminals, giggling at crime scenes, and arguing with machines. O, how he missed it all. Heads in the fridge eyeballs in the microwave, a flatmate covered in blood when he came home. It was all so light and bittersweet but suddenly it turned dark and sour. John stood a block away trying to move but his legs would not. He had seen this before as his best friend, his Sherlock, tossed his phone to the side spread out his arms and jumped. John ran as fast as he could, his feet stumbling over themselves as he struggled to make it in time to catch his friend. This time would be different, this time he would make it in time. He avoided the biker for the first time and he saw Sherlock's body smash into the pavement. John got close enough to hear his last words "It's a trick. It's all just a magic trick."

At one point, John almost woke up while Sherlock still stood in the room with him. He swooped down and slyly tricked John into dry taking some sleeping pills. He lingered though. Much longer than he should have. His hand resting against John's face, he repeated his last words, "it's a trick, it's all just a magic trick," kissed him on the forehead and stayed there for nearly half an hour before finishing what John had started.

John awoke in a cold sweat late in the morning and began to panic because of his unfamiliar surroundings. He soon remembered he was in Sherlock's room but somehow everything was back in place. He could have sworn—he must have finished sometime during the night and blacked out because he was so tired. Putting his hand where Sherlock's was he remembered all he would do to get his friend back, all he had done since that day, and all he hadn't finished yet.

****AN- you can always review and guess who the killer is! Chapter after next is looking like the reunion.****


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: You all have been awesome readers! I can't believe there have been so many of you! Please remember that reviews are always welcome, especially if you want to guess who the gloved gunman is (no, I haven't forgotten our little mystery). **

**Anyway, I wanted to share the inspiration for this fic, it was a post I found over winter break on Tumblr and have recently come across again. **

**Roses are red**

**His scarf was blue**

**If he doesn't turn up soon**

**I might have to jump, too**

**-JW**

John walked into the flat, loosened his tie and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Picking up the bottle of scotch, he went and slouched on the couch and poured himself a glass. He drank in silence until he was numb. There was a lump in his throat as he held back the tears.  
Once again, he was all alone in this world. For the second time in two and a half years, his best friend was stolen from him.

He had taken the rest of the week off with warning he may need some more time. He hardly moved around the flat. It was as though he had become a ghost haunting himself. Each morning he would wake up, shave, make himself a cup of coffee and lay on the couch listening to the silence. He allowed it to consume him, swallow him whole. Her ring lay in his clasped hands. It was still the most stunning piece of jewellery he had ever seen. It was made with white gold and had a square cut pink diamond over three carrots and a halo of small white diamonds surrounding it. He had spent nearly a month's salary in the blink of an eye.

When he got down on one knee, her eyes had widened with a mixture of horror and delight. He couldn't help but giggle at her girlish reaction. "Susan Amelia Hamilton, will you make me the happiest man in the world and choose to marry me?" he waited for the last two words before opening the box. She was in utter awe, she tried to answer him but no words could escape her lips. After a moment, she gained some composure and called him a fool because there was no one she would rather grow old with.

Now, nearly two years later, he had buried her six feet underground because of a car crash. She had gone with some friends to the theatre and some wine afterwards. It was a crisp spring night and she wasn't too far from home, so she had decided to walk. When she was almost home, a drunk driver ran through his red light and hit her. He had been going nearly one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. She rolled over the vehicle, plummeted into the ground, and struggled to get up. But with broken limbs and fractured ribs, she soon gave up. She laid on the pavement with her curly black hair stuck to the blood on her face and her green eyes scanning for anyone to help. It was a quiet street so no cars passed for hours.

Despite the pain, she drifted off to sleep. Early in the morning, a jogger found her on the ground and an ambulance arrived within minutes and carted her to the Wellington Hospital. John awoke and found her missing and thought nothing more of it than how she must have spent the night with a friend. He showered and looked over the tattoos he had gotten while working as a special forces Marine. He despised them now because they only reminded him of the terrible things he had done. Susan, however, adored them because you would never expect something from a man who looked like "he should hug kittens for a living." He put on his button down shirt and sweater vest laughing to himself about how charming and delightful his wife could be.

Like most other days, he read the morning paper on the tube and ate a banana while drinking a coffee. Everything changed once he got to work. Casey, one of the nurses he rather enjoyed, ran up to him as soon as he had walked in the door. Frantically she told him how Susan had been brought in a few hours ago and everyone had been trying to call his mobile but it was off.

Dazed, he made his way to her room and explained he was not able to work; he had already been replaced for the day.

She lay silently on the freshly pressed white sheets. While the blood had been wiped off her face, it was evident there would be scars. Her back was in a cast suggesting that, if she survived, she would never walk again.

John was unable to resist, he picked up the clipboard and began to look over her state. She had some severe internal bleeding in her right leg and broken her wrist, and fractured a shoulder all in addition to her broken back. He decided not to continue for his own sake and sat with her in silence and held her hand.

"John. John, dear. Wake up." There was a slight nudge on his shoulder and a plumy voice in his ear.

"Susan? Are you okay?" he said gravelly.

"No, I'm afraid she is asleep still. Her condition seems to be improving, however. John, dear, it's Casey. You need to go home. I'm afraid visiting hours are over. Go home and call your family and friends, they deserve to know what's happened."

"You're right, Casey" he had a small, faked smile on his face as he cracked his back. He stood up, grabbed his cane and began to head out. "Call me if anything happens—God forbidding. If I don't answer, you know where to send an intern." And with that, he left.

Susan never did wake up, after another week of bleeding internally and flat brain waves, John single-handedly made the decision to pull the life support. He couldn't bear to be there when it happened, it was no fault of hers, he simply couldn't watch another best friend die in his arms.

John pulled out his phone as he left Susan's room for the final time and dialled the long unused phone sitting in Sherlock's room. "Hello, Mycroft. I know you're listening. I need a favour, listen it's nothing huge. It's just that Susan—" his voice became brittle, "well, she died today. Seeing as I planned your brother's funeral, I could really use it." With that, he snapped the phone shut.

Sherlock's new phone rang in 223C from an unknown number, "Hello, Mycroft. How has the cake been treating you?"

"Quite fine, oh brother of mine. Are you aware of what's recently happened to your precious Army Doctor?"

"Susan was injured the other day but I fail to see—"

"She died moments ago. John has asked me to plan her funeral and I thought I would pass it along to you unless, of course, you do not want to help John in his time of need. Perhaps you have something better to do, like those 'recreational activities' you've started again"

The phone was dead on Sherlock's end. How could this have happened? John was in pain and here he was, aligning his drugs for minimum percent error. "I'll do it" and he hung up.


	6. Chapter 6

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Gloved Gunman walked down the street. In the heart of London he went unnoticed; he was as invisible as cellophane, as silent as a dead man's breath. He walked in search of a victim, and made sure that this one would catch the attention of the Detective-Inspector and the British Government, such an unlikely couple though they were. He began to follow a pretty, young girl with long wispy blonde hair, but when she turned around, he quickly discovered she was a student, a liberal arts major most likely, and her phone suggested that her father spoiled her rotten. She had too much of her life to live; she was only a freshman after all.

He soon found himself in Queen Mary's Gardens where he found a woman who could pass. She was beautiful with her bobbed black curly hair, olive skin, and eyes mined in Johannesburg. Her demeanour suggested former military, but he could tell that now she worked in the medical field- like John. Her constant alertness held all the signs of being an E.R. surgeon.

He hated this. He never wanted to kill; he belonged on the side of the angels. It was not his fault, honestly. His intentions were pure, but his actions spilled blood.

She had dropped something and he went to pick it up for her—it was almost too easy. They began exchanging tedious words of salutations and he soon discovered she was headed to the London Eye. He lied and said he was heading in that direction too, so they walked together.  
"So you used to solve crimes? That's fascinating. Were you a private investigator or a cop?"

"Something like that," he said with a wiry smile and a chuckle that felt forced

"I'm sure you solved loads of cases and helped hundreds of people." She stopped to tie her shoe.

"It wasn't just me"

"That's true. Do you miss it?" She began to stand up.

"Only every day of my life."

"You're so brave," a step toward him, "and noble," and another, "not to mention charming." With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back, slowly, remembering the motion of all thirty-four muscles it took to do this properly.

"I can't- I don't- You're so young. I can't take advantage of you like this. I'm sorry, please—"

"I'm not a child. Besides, I'm the one who started it. I also have a thing for older men. So," she leaned in again. This time she was more forceful, possessive of her catch. Her hands slid up his back and clenched his locks tightly. A cab drove past on a street nearby and he escaped her clutches for a second to call for it.

She suggested her apartment and he nodded. This fitted in perfectly with his plans.

As soon as she shut the door, she slammed him against the wall and began tugging at her blouse to un-tuck it. She found is hands and pulled them to the buttons so he could unfasten them while her hands moved back to his lower back and she began grinding her hips. Suddenly, she backed away and motioned to the nearest chair. "Sit down," her voice shook between a plea and a command.

"I don't want to sit down."

"Sit down," this time, there was no plea.

"I'm sorry to have to do this to you," he picked up his case and exhumed a Ziploc bag containing latex gloves. "You're such a pretty," Snap! Went one glove. "young thing." Snap! Went the other. Next, he removed a blank piece of paper and a pen and placed them on the table with a small gesture suggesting they were for her. She sat down, confused and picked up the pen.

"I'm going to kill you. Shhhhh. Don't fight it, that's useless. I'm giving you one last chance to say your goodbyes. And don't think for a second that I won't be reading over your shoulder to protect myself. I want this to be as painless as possible for you, and your cooperation will help."  
Slowly, she scribbled her last words to her parents, her fiancé, and others in her life. "Here," he tossed her the blouse that was lying on the ground. "We wouldn't want the police to find you like this." His voice was genuine and soothing. For some reason she hurried in fastening the buttons, as though this, of all things, could protect her from the handgun casually resting in his hand. "Remember all the good that has happened to you. Your life has been good, better than many others. Appreciate that." The silenced gun in his hand fired once, a clean shot through her throat. She was dead before she could feel the pain. He carefully laid the gun down and retrieved his knife. Carefully, he carved the letter P into both cheeks. He noted how the flesh curved and bent to the will of his knife, how it split to reveal the tender muscles below the surface of the skin. He was seeing the poetry of the human body take place, and he had caused it.

Penelope Potts was dead and his next killing was on the storyboard.


	7. Chapter 7

John finished reading the paper and eating his breakfast. There was a rather tragic story about a Penelope Potts who was killed in the same way as five other women had been within the last three years. It was sad, but concerned him not. Then, he made his way to the cemetery with his cane in one hand and two bouquets of flowers in the other. One bouquet was significantly larger.

He stopped by Susan's grave and cleaned it up a little. It was not the way he had once cleaned Sherlock's grave, but then again, today was not about her. After placing the smaller bouquet by her headstone, he made his way over to Sherlock's grave. It began to lightly rain and his cane squished and slid slightly in the mud. On his knees, he pulled a rag from his pocket and began to vigorously clean the tombstone. Today it was exactly three years since Sherlock had jumped. He decided that the cleaning could wait until mud stopped splashing; so, he sat down, leaning on the tombstone, flowers in his lap.

"I quit wishing for a miracle years ago. I gave up hope of you coming home like nothing had happened and play your violin. Coming home and telling me off for not dusting your room, for making your bed because I slept in it, for letting Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson take your harpoon and experiments. It took me months to stop making tea for two. I almost killed myself, because of you.

"After all of this time I still don't understand why you did it. Why you jumped. You weren't a fake and a little negative press wouldn't push you like that. Not the greatest man I ever knew," he paused for a long while, and the rain began to pound down on him quickly and painfully.

"The last thing I ever said to your face was 'you machine.' I have replayed that moment over and over and over again in my head. Thinking of ways I could have saved you, of anything else to say, of how weird it was you weren't concerned for Mrs. Hudson. You shoved a man out a window more than enough times, and he didn't even come close to killing her.

"I could have dragged you away. I could have stayed and yelled at you. I could have done anything besides leave you there. I wish I would have said you were acting strange, said I wouldn't leave without you, said—" He broke off to fight the tears. There was a lump in his throat, his stomach turned to lead, and his eyes stung like a gunshot wound.

"And now I'm all alone again with nowhere to turn, no one to go to. Without a home, without a friend, without a face to greet." He sat in silence knowing that he was just pretending Sherlock was beside him. He could feel that arm on his shoulder. It was only in his mind; he was talking to himself, and not to Sherlock.

Doctor John Watson was having a conversation on his own.

A sleek black Mercedes pulled up on the road and out stepped a woman. Her black hair sewn from silk, her curves crafted from clay. John glanced her way and let out a disheartened and groggy "hello."

"I heard you had gotten over this phase, John. How long did it take for you to sleep in your own bed again? Without the stench of whiskey on your breath?" Her voice mocked him. It forced those ugly memories back into his head.

He sighed deeply and simply replied "too long."

"Word on the street was that you almost killed yourself after he died, but not when your wife did. Do you still stand that you didn't—don't love him?"

"He was never mine to lose...why regret what could not be?"

"Because that's what people do. We show up three years after someone has died and talk to their grave. We talk to a piece of marble about our lives and say how much we wish he were still with us. As humans, we can never escape the 'what if'. What if you never joined the military? What if I never did what I do? What if Moriarty had left Sherlock alone? He would still be here, John Watson. And it's not his death you're still grieving over. You never got revenge and that eats you up. The love of your life didn't commit suicide, and you know that."

"What's yours? Hmmmm?" John cocked his eyebrow up as though to imply several layers of questions. Why do you miss Sherlock? Come to think of it, why are you alive and in London?

"After the case I was set to be executed by a group of Iranian rebels. Sherlock... he saved my life and then kept me protected from Mycroft. Then I had to lay low for a while. When the scandal with the press started, I tried to warn him. I talked to every reporter who would listen; almost none of them printed my story. He probably never read them, never saw the warnings, never read between the lines. I should've saved his life like he saved mine."

John began to pull himself up so he could comfort The Woman. Before he could, she had spun on her stiletto "Don't touch me" she paused between each word, and her neck tightened.

Once she left, the cemetery was quiet again. It occurred to John that he had not truly been alone since that fateful day three years prior. He often dwelled upon Sherlock's wisdom (or lack thereof) when he was in times of need. With the deducing skills he picked up while working cases with Sherlock he was able to know who was trustworthy. He knew how to wear a disguise and that guys who wore product in their hair were gay. There was one thing he hadn't learned, however. He was unsure of how, and why, Sherlock faked his death. Yes, he was certain his friend was still alive and hiding in the shadows. As the sun set behind the skyline of London, John's phone bleeped with a text message.

The cemetery is about to close. I won't be able to make it to see Sherlock today, I got stuck working on that 'Gloved Gunman' case again. Meet me at Allsop Arms for a few drinks so I don't have to arrest your sorry ass again. –GL

John was shocked Lestrade was going to come at all. Sherlock's incident with Moriarty had almost tanked Lestrade's career. He had been put under a magnifying glass by the higher ups for nearly a year. He wasn't given the lead on serious cases and couldn't make announcements on cases. When the rest of the department found out about his relationship with the elder Holmes brother (thanks to some "anonymous source" A.K.A. Sally Donovan) all hell broke loose. By some miracle, probably the British government's involvement, Lestrade once again had the privileges of being a Detective Inspector. By the time John stopped at 221B to change his clothes and made it into the pub, Lestrade had already finished a glass of Indian Pale Ale. John sat at the table and ordered some chips and a glass of WKD.  
2 days ago  
"I always knew, John."

"What?" He stammered, confused by Lestrade's arbitrary statement.

"That Sherlock couldn't commit those crimes. I thought it'd blow up in the papers for a few days until he found the evidence he needed to prove his innocence. He wouldn't just prove he wasn't guilty, but prove he's innocent. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

"That's good." They got quiet as the server brought John's order and Lestrade's refill. "Why do you think he did it, then?"

"If I had any clue do you think I would be here getting drinks on his deathday?"

"You know what I think? I think he did it for us. We both know Moriarty made him do it, but how? I think you were in trouble."

"Me?"

"Yes, John, you, and others. Mrs. Hudson, Molly—"

"You."

"Sherlock didn't like me. I mean what did I do for him?"

"For starters, you got him off drugs and into solving crimes. You treated him like an actual human being, trusted him, needed him. And I'll bet my life that he liked you more than his own brother." The two men laughed and sipped their drinks. Every word John said about why Sherlock cared for him was a dagger in Lestrade, a painful reminder of how the life of a great man was cut painfully short.

"I guess we did get very, very lucky. Sherlock Holmes is a good man."

The two friends finished their drinks and parted on their ways home. John walked home; it was too close to do anything else. He hung his coat in the hall, limped up the stairs, started his Newton's cradle and went to make a single cup of tea. He noticed the cradle had stopped so he picked up his cane, which was leaning on the kitchen counter, and when he turned around, John couldn't believe what he saw. There was Sherlock, holding the ball.

"It was a trick." The smile on his face showed how proud he was of himself. "It was all just a magic trick."


End file.
